CHAPTER XI

SIR JOHN PREPARES FOR ACTION, AND BARBARA HEARS MANY STRANGE THINGS

Whatever tears bedewed the pillow of my dear Lady Erskine that night there was no sign of them in the morning. The household was early astir as usual, and at once the bustle of preparation seemed to spread from attic to cellar. Sir John was about to depart once more, and though I scanned my lady’s face for that look of foreboding and dissatisfaction that I expected to see, so well did she have her heart in control that no shadow of it appeared; indeed, there was an air of alertness about her manner of moving and speaking which took me by surprise. Instead of the fearful wife mourning over the prospect of her coming loneliness, there was the brave woman arming her husband, so to speak, for the battle, and sending him from her with words of cheer and glad prophecies of victory.

At her request Sir John consented to make me a sharer of the news that had arrived the night before, and drawing me into his room he closed the door, and bidding me come close to him he said in a low voice, but with his wonted smile,

“’Tis of vast importance, Barbara, this that we have heard. My Lord of Mar hath, only a few days back, got news from France; no less than a letter from the King, in which his Majesty tells him that for the sake of his honour he can no longer delay coming to Scotland. He will be at Dieppe the end of the month, a sennight from now, and the Rising, Barbara, the Rising is appointed for--nay, I will not name the exact date to you, child, but ’tis to be early in the coming month.”

I held my breath and clasped my hands. “And will my Lord Mar fight?” I whispered.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the knight with a laugh, “but he may be Commander-in-chief of the King’s army.”

“Then you, Sir John, will be in the thick of it,” cried I. “Oh, for my lady’s sake, be good to yourself and go not in the front of the battle, cousin.”

“Silly child!” he answered, and, indeed, I knew that I was silly ere ever the words were uttered. “Who thinks of dangers at a time like this? A man’s life is no more secure for hiding behind a hay-stack, which might catch fire at his back, when he ought to be facing the bullets. Depend on’t, we none of us die before our time, nor can we preserve our lives beyond it. ’Tis best not to take account of death, my lass, but to do our duty just where we find it.”

The smile had left his face as he laid a kind hand on my shoulder, and for a moment my heart was so full that I found means to relieve it by an unuttered prayer for his safety. Then, not wishing to appear moved before him, I said, “Is the Duke of Ormond ready, too, sir?”

I thought his face fell.

“Of that I can scarce speak,” he said. “My lord is somewhat uncertain on this point; but I doubt not all will be right once they hear the King’s Standard is raised in the north.”

And, Mr. Peck coming at that moment to the door, Sir John dismissed me hurriedly, though with his wonted kindness. I flew to my lady, and finding her calm and occupied in the contemplation of her husband’s hose, “Dear cousin,” I cried, “I know all; and now tell me what I can do, for I am dying of eagerness to help you.”

“Then go,” she said at once, “and see about the making up of your mails, for Phemie is busy with the children’s things. We start for Dysart to-morrow.”

At my exclamation of surprise she smiled. “You must know,” she went on, “that every year, in the month of August, I take my sons to their Grandfather’s house for the benefit of the sea-air and bathing. To our neighbours who are not with us our departure has, therefore, nothing out of the common; but to you I can say a little more. Sir John believes that the Earl of Mar will land in Fife. If he does, he will meet him there and perhaps follow him north, and, seeing that my Lord Sinclair is a man of some standing, and my brother in the midst of this affair, ’twill be easier for me to get news at the Hermitage than here at Alva. So he desires me to go there for a time and await the result of the Earl’s arrival; and, though I love best, when deserted, to be in my own house, Barbara, where every stone and tree speaks to me of Sir John, still, as it is his pleasure, I am glad to go. You will see Betty again, my dear, and that will content you also.”

So, in little more than a month from leaving it, I found myself again at Dysart.

In spite of our anxiety and excitement, which, with all our will, ’twas impossible to hide, the week that followed was a happy one. My Lady Erskine had her husband and children with her, and as she tenderly loved her father and sisters, she was in the midst of all that were dearest to her. Her brother, the Master, was for once in good humour and forebore to vex her by his sarcastic speeches to her husband. Indeed, Sir John and he were almost on friendly terms, for the knight, partly to please his dear lady, and partly, as I think, from a genuine appreciation of the younger man’s gifts, deferred to him as the eldest son of his host in a manner both courteous and kindly. It is true that in the last few weeks the conduct of the Master had gone far to establish his reputation for caution and diplomacy among his neighbours in the country. You must know that an order had come from Court to the sheriffs throughout England and Scotland that they should make search among the gentry, how many horses they had and if there were any signs of disaffection among them, their animals should be confiscated in the name of King George, as well as any arms found in their possession. I understand that the Master, with some difficulty, persuaded the zealous magistrate that this order could not apply to Fife, where all was quiet and orderly, but must be intended for England which was ever in a state of disturbance. He bade them look round upon his neighbours and judge if they had among them all enough horses to form a troop, or indeed, any beasts fitted for war. No, he told them, nor had they even the proper saddles and bridles for fitting out Cavalry. It would be foolish, he warned them, to get themselves into disfavour by robbing poor, innocent gentlemen of their only means of getting about, and as for arms he could swear there were not two score of pistols in his corner of Fife.

So skilful was his address, and so easy his manner, that for a time the good folk were persuaded to leave them in peace; but he suspected, as he told my lord, his father, that it could not be for long. All this Sir John Erskine knew and approved, and, indeed, he was generous enough to forget his brother-in-law’s ill-humours, and to take into consideration his military knowledge and real ability for management.

But at last one night, early in the month of August, our tranquillity came to an end; and indeed, though we knew it not then, ’twas the end of all peace and happiness for many days to come.

Sir John and my lady, the Master and Betty, were bidden to dinner to the house of Mr. Malcome of Grange; and his kind sister, Mistress Anne, seeing me at the Hermitage one day when she came to visit, and remembering my grandpapa and my parents, very cordially asked me to be of the party. The Master, who had business that day of a private nature some miles away, was late of arriving at the house, but late as he was our host was still later. Mistress Anne, having waited already for the guest, decided not to delay longer for the master, and telling us gaily that the dinner would be spoilt, not to talk of the cook’s temper, she made us sit down without him. I remember nothing about the meal except that when Mr. Malcome did arrive, which was not till we had been half-an-hour at table, he appeared to be in a very hilarious mood, and scarce eat anything, though he called for many toasts. His apologies for his discourtesy were vague though profuse, and he carried on his conversation in jerky phrases, quite unlike his wonted flowing style.

What was in the air, however, we did not discover till the feast was ended and most of the guests departed. As the party from Dysart were to lie that night at Grange, we alone remained, and were seated with Mistress Anne in the parlour, when her brother who had been seeing his guests away from the front door, entered the room, accompanied by Sir John and the Master of Sinclair.

At once Mr. Malcome shut to the door, closed the shutters with their heavy iron bar, and extinguished some of the candles. Then beckoning to us ladies to come round him, he began to talk in a low voice.

“Great news to-day, my friends! My lord, the Earl of Mar, is landed.”

Sir John, my lady and myself were all eagerness at this, but showed no surprise. Mistress Malcome threw up her hands in amazement, Betty appeared puzzled, but the face of the Master grew as black as thunder.

“My Lord of Mar?” he cried out harshly.

“Just so!” continued Mr. Malcome, “he landed last night at Elie, not far from this very house, having come all the way from London, so he tells me, in a coal-barque. He was disguised as a common sailor, and wrought like one too, as the ship possessed but three seamen.”

“What need of so much theatrical display?” interrupted the Master with a sneer.

“To baffle our friends at Court,” was the reply, “where my lord took care to attend a levee the very night that he sailed.”

“Does he come alone?” inquired Sir John.

“He is accompanied by General Hamilton and Colonel Hay, also disguised, my lord travelling as Mr. Maule. ’Twas cleverly arranged, and no mortal in London can as yet be aware of his movements. He has now gone to be with Bethune of Balfour, and from thence in a day or two he spurs north to Dupplin House.”

“What means his coming, brother?” asked Mistress Malcome, still perplexed.

“I will tell you, my dear; ’tis to pave the way for the coming of the Duke of Berwick--”

“The Duke of Berwick!” cried Betty, with sharp displeasure in her tones, “and why not the King?”

“Because, Mistress Betty, it is not yet quite certain that the King may not have to go to England, and join with the Duke of Ormond there.”

“Is England ready also?” asked my lady.

“Yes, madam, and so is France. King Louis, as you know, is eager to help us. He hath promised us ten thousand men, of whose landing either in England or Scotland we may hear any day, with great store of arms and ammunition.”

Darker and darker grew the Master’s face as he listened, and now he burst forth in his harshest and most scornful tones:

“And pray, what hath my Lord of Mar to do with all this? Is it to be supposed that he who hath thrown himself under the feet of the Elector of Hanover, only to be kicked away as he deserved, will be trusted as a leader by the leal gentlemen of Fife? I wonder to hear you, sir, speak thus complacently of a man of my lord’s temper, upon whom no reliance can be placed! Did he not betray us over the Union, and will he not do it again?”

This speech had the effect of altering the aspect of the company as may well be imagined. My lady and our kind hostess looked alarmed; Sir John turned to the Master and bade him curtly be silent, in a tone I had never heard him use before; Betty jumped up, and running to her brother put her white arm round his neck, and begged him for her sake to have patience. Mr. Malcome seemed uncomfortable, as well he might, while as for myself, Barbara, I sat entranced, absorbed and interested as if I were beholding some drama that was being enacted before my eyes.

At length Mr. Malcome answered soothingly:

“I believe that there is no reason to doubt the Earl’s good faith seeing he is prepared to give himself wholly for the Cause. As for the Union, I spoke of that to his lordship, and he owned very frankly that he had been in the wrong to do what he did, but that he hoped by his future conduct to make amends to Scotland and to us, and in trusting him we should never repent it.”

“Repent!” snarled the master, “and if we were ever such fools as to trust such a man, think you that repenting afterwards would retrieve it?”

Again the other attempted to pacify him.

“I have told him, my dear Master, of the daily fears we have been in, and of the struggle you have had to keep our horses; but I said also that the danger could not be staved off much longer.”

“And what said he to that?” asked Sir John, who during the interview had spoken little, as one who scarce needed information on the subject in hand. “What said he to that?”

“He said,” replied Mr. Malcome, “and I scarce know how to take it, ‘whenever they are pressed let them draw together and defend themselves.’”

For a few moments there was dead silence and then the Master spoke, this time in a voice of icy coldness that had the sound of a sneer all through it. ’Twas this voice that so oft enraged and exasperated his brother, Sir John, and hearing it I justified my dear guardian for any expression of anger he had ever used towards Captain Sinclair.

“Truly, we ought to thank my Lord of Mar for this precious piece of advice, for as such,” he said, “I regard it, seeing that in prospect of the coming of the Duke of Berwick, the Earl can scarcely consider himself in a position to _issue orders_. But I, for one, decline to take it. What! can it be imagined that the gentlemen of Fife are so rash and foolish as to gather themselves together like rats in a corn-yard, with the prospect of being worried by the terriers? Consider, sir, the facts that we already know. The Government are sending my Lord Duke of Argyle with his dragoons to Stirling, which alas! is but a few miles away. We hear that the Whig magistrates and burghers of Perth have made themselves masters of that town. Consequently, as they hold the Bridge of Earn, which is our only passage out of Fife, what is easier than to keep us prisoners here! My Lord Rothes, our worthy Sheriff, has armed the whole mob of the county, who could readily surround and take us, or if fortune favoured us so far as to let us escape, who could assure us of a refuge in the Highlands? Which of us would be bold enough to make our way through the Athole Country, whose Duke would have vast pleasure in seizing us and delivering us up to the Government?”

But Sir John could keep silence no longer, and his full mellow voice fell like balm upon my ears, now aching from the Master’s grating tones.

“The Master of Sinclair,” he said, “knows me too well to imagine that I could for a moment call in question his courage or his honour; but it seems to me that thus to conjure up so many difficulties, where in fact there are none, is scarce the act of a brave and experienced officer.”

“No difficulties?” cried out the master. “Call you the want of arms nothing?”

“But arms are coming from France,” persisted Mr. Malcome. “Are they not promised already, and indeed may now be on the way. Arms, ammunition, men, money, there will be nothing lacking; and it doth surprise me not a little to find so hardy a young gentleman as the Master of Sinclair naturally is, turning so backward in an adventure of the sort.”

“Hardihood is not necessarily folly, my good friend,” growled the Master. “But, to be sure, you are known as ‘the honest laird,’ and what you say to the people they will stand by. But a day may come when not only Fife, but all Scotland, shall rue the landing of the Earl of Mar from his coal-barque at Elie last night.”

This speech was followed by a prudent silence, and after a pause our host rose, and turning to the knight said courteously:

“And now, Sir John, will you grant me a few minutes in private?”

As they left the room, my lady and Mistress Anne followed to make some arrangement for the morrow, and thus we three, Betty, Barbara, and the Master were left alone.

“You do not trust the Earl of Mar, brother?” said Betty, somewhat timidly.

“No more than I would trust a serpent not to sting me, were I fool enough to warm it in my bosom,” was his contemptuous reply.

“My brother, Sir John, thinks different,” quoth she.

“I know it well, my dear, and though I acquit the knight of being so great a knave as his kinsman, he is in my opinion no less of a fool.”

At this my face burned hot, and I called out from my corner.

“You do not like Sir John, Captain Sinclair; you are ever unjust to him.”

He turned at that, surprised to hear so bold a speech from the girl who had sat dumb for the past hour, but he smiled stiffly. With all his ill-humour I have never seen him discourteous to a woman; and seeing that in after years he was twice married, both times to good and sensible women, it may be that there was a side to his character to which the world was a stranger. If this were not so, as I have often thought, my dear Betty could not have loved him so tenderly.

“Your heat, Mistress Barbara, does credit to your heart,” he said, “and I blame you not for disagreeing with me. Sir John is my brother-in-law, it is true; but the nearness of our relationship, while it assures me of his virtues as a husband and a friend, does not blind my judgment to his character. The darling passion of his life is the attempting of desperate projects, and no matter how often he should fail, there is that buoyancy in his nature which will not suffer him to be convinced of his own insufficiency. He hath still the misfortune to imagine he is born to be a Great Man, and when all fails, nothing but want of wings can hinder him from undertaking the voyage of the moon.”

He was not without discernment, the Master of Sinclair; and although at the time I bitterly resented his words, and believed that he spoke thus out of jealousy, I have since had reason to think that, robbed of its extravagance, his estimate of my kind guardian’s character was not altogether wrong.